


Vikmione Tales

by Calebski



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-10-25 13:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calebski/pseuds/Calebski
Summary: Stories with one of my favourite hp pairings. One-shots, mini fics and more.





	1. What You Always Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This collection will be for Vikmione gift fics and other bits of writing. If you are waiting on a Vikmione gift fic following a prompt, this is where it will appear.

Prompt: [Hermione x Viktor] What you always wanted.   
for Nautical Paramour

* * *

Cassandra Lambert had worked hard to get to where she was in life. She had graduated top of her class from Beauxbatons and had travelled extensively. Now she had her dream position as Assistant to the Head of the Department of Mysteries at the British Ministry of Magic. 

After the war, the Ministry was a place of sweeping development and reform. As its reputation for excellence grew, it became a beacon to the next generation of change-makers, attracting them from all over the world. 

Cassandra felt the role was an excellent stepping stone; it was certainly more than she had expected for ‘entry-level’. It allowed her to build up a network that she would need to succeed. It also helped that her boss was resoundingly fair and predictable. Well, she always had been predictable, until that morning. 

Hermione Granger, the youngest Department head in Ministry history, came back from her budget review meeting and excitedly announced that they would be receiving double their funding for the coming year.

The team were elated, and Hermione had a rare grin on her face which made her look much younger than her thirty-five years, reminding them all of how amazing it was that she was so good at her job considering her relative inexperience.

It was no secret that it had been Hermione’s ambition since she joined the department to get their coffers increased, and she had ample - and impressive - plans for the additional funds. 

After the cheering had died down, Cassandra had done what she always did when Hermione arrived in the morning. She followed her into her office and placed a coffee - black, no sugar - onto her desk and took her through the urgent memos and schedule for that day. 

“Congratulations, Miss Granger,” she had said as she left, with a warm smile on her face. “You’ve got what you always wanted.”

Since then her utterly predictable boss had been doing the unthinkable, something Cassandra was unprepared for. Hermione was sat with her head pressed against her parchment-covered desk muttering to herself, and a crowd was beginning to form. 

* * *

Hermione was sat with her forehead pressed against her too hard, too large desk trying to reboot herself. Cassandra’s words ran through her mind on loop; _ what you always wanted, what you always wanted, what you always wanted._

She felt sick. She felt distracted. She felt tired — things she was never supposed to think in her office. Her mind conjured the memory of Viktor as he packed his bags, but this time it wasn’t for another tour. His usually smiling mouth had been set in a grim line, and he had brushed passed her on his way to the door, managing to not touch her despite the restrictions of the small hotel corridor. 

_“Well, Hermione, I guess you got what you always wanted.”_

_“Viktor, I…”_

_“Don’t. You were always looking for a way out, and now you have one.”_

It was the last thing he ever said to her, and even then, even when they were breaking up, he was too kind to say it with any bitterness. 

Hermione had never forgotten it, and it made her achievement that day, or any of them that had come after if she was honest, hollow. 

* * *

Cassandra had eventually shooed away the rubberneckers and was contemplating contacting Auror Potter when suddenly Hermione’s voice called weakly to her from the office behind.

“Cassandra,” she began in a hesitant tone, “clear my schedule, I think I… I think I need to go to Bulgaria.”


	2. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt [Hermione x Viktor] Darkness  
for Anon

“Morsmordre!”

His voice, as he cast the calling card of the Death Eaters high into the air, was unrecognisable. _ How could it be otherwise? _He was raised to despise and abore such magic. Seeing the mark of Grindlewald casually decorating a textbook as if it was a petty act of teenage rebellion had once made him angry enough to pin a fellow student against a wall. Now he was far worse than that boy had ever been. He wasn’t just casting skulls in the sky; he was committing the crimes that necessitated it being there. 

Viktor was sure his Grandfather was turning in his grave. If there was an afterlife, and one that would accept him after all that he had done, he hoped he would be given a chance to explain. 

Under the ever-watchful eyes of Felix Mulciber, Viktor pocketed his tainted wand and tried not to look back at the cottage they had just exited. It was easy enough once he turned away, too easy almost, though he’d had some practice by now. Viktor had made that mistake the first time he had been out with the hooded men he had once feared. He had looked back, but all he had been able to see where broken glass and crushed bricks stood, were the terrified faces of the former inhabitants scorched in front of his vision. He didn’t look any more. But it didn’t’ mean he never saw the faces; now they just waited until he tried to sleep. 

It was harder to avoid the dark mark he had cast into the sky. Its sickening glow reflected off everything. Permeating the very air he breathed so much like his Lord’s grip around his throat. Voldemort didn’t have to be in the room for Viktor to feel his clawed fingers in his back. He imagined if someone were looking at him now, they would see the luminous green lurking in his pupils, marking him as surely as the stain on his arm. 

Viktor had gone into this aware and fully briefed, but it didn’t make it any more comforting to know that his intentions had been good. _ The road to hell _, his mind quoted in a voice that sounded so like Hermione’s it brought bile up in his throat. 

Viktor had known what he would face, but he hadn’t really understood what it had meant. He had been too keen to throw himself into his mission to think about how much of himself he would lose. He hadn’t comprehended what it would mean when he agreed that these animals had to_ believe _ this he was in this, that he believed in their cause and wanted to do what was necessary. 

Viktor blocked it all out and just thought of _ her. _

His actions had been scrutinied since he had the mark burned in his arm and he couldn’t afford to slip up, to show any of the disgust he felt. He’d had one objective, to find Hermione and until that was done, he had to keep wading through the evil that surrounded him and hope he didn’t drown.

One hundred days, Hermione had been missing, taken by Reuben Yaxley during a routine manoeuvre that had gone entirely wrong. They had known the Death Eaters must have been informed, it meant they had a spy in their ranks. Viktor’s second objective for being there was to identify them and make the Order aware. Viktor knew as he had never known before that they would never pick that person up now. As soon as he knew who it was that had lead to his girlfriend being taken, he would break them. He had enough blood on his hands to know that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

The Order had monetarily derailed in Hermione’s absence. Potter had blamed himself, and Sirius had been all for storming Yaxley’s last known address, but Viktor had known those plans wouldn’t work, knew they were much more likely to get her killed. So he had presented an alternative, turning spy and trying to get her location from the inside. 

Fifty days he had been a marked man. Viktor wondered if he would still be worthy of her when he found her. 


	3. Better be... Hufflepuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Viktor goes to Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang. I've always wondered in which house would he have been sorted into and I would like to read your take on it.   
for Anon (via Tumblr)

Viktor lined up in the drafty stone hall and tried to ignore that one of his feet was damp. He had managed to trip on some of the shingles on the bank of the lake after walking through Hogsmede. Though, thankfully, he had stopped himself before he fell the whole way into the murky water. It wasn’t exactly how he wanted to make his first impression, as the boy who almost drowned before they’d even got to the school gates. It was going to be hard enough to fit in with the lingering language barrier and his obvious accent.

He’d seen a few of the other kids looking at him with curious expressions, and Viktor had wondered what it was about him that seemed to scream ‘does not belong here’.  _ Was it his clothes? How he cut his hair? The type of trunk he favoured? _ They’d managed to suss him out and as far as he knew he hadn’t opened his mouth since he had been dropped off by his rather reluctant parents at King’s Cross Station. 

Hogwart’s had never been on his agenda. Viktor had expected to go to Durmstrang since he was small. Had planned for it, had wanted it. It was where his father had gone, and both of his grandfathers. His attendance has been as expected as the sun rising on a new day. But then, two years ago, Durmstrang had appointed a new Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, and an ex Death Eater with no history in education. In response, his father had done the unthinkable and forbidden him to go. 

Viktor had spent the long, monotonous train ride to Scotland thinking about all of his friends, of all of those people that would forget him now he was going to a boarding school in another country. Despite the bustle of the corridors, his carriage had remained empty, save for him and his trunk. Viktor had tried not to see it as an omen for his time there. He thought of his mother’s damp eyes that he had caught sight of before she squeezed him so tight that the air was robbed from his chest, and he tried not to give in to the urge to cry himself. 

Viktor shuffled uncomfortably between the chatting students, trying not to resent them for the happy, burgeoning friendships they had already formed on their journey. A stern-looking witch had been in the corridor a moment before and had explained in brusk, barely legible tones that they would be called in one at a time. Now all he could do was wait, and without the distraction of engaging with those around him, the minutes felt long.

He tried to focus on some of the chattering voices, hoping that their speech was more discernable than the elderly witch’s had been. For the last two summers, Viktor had an English tutor, as plans had been put into readiness for him to travel to Scotland for school. The lessons were hard to endure and often fruitless, but the tensions at home were harder to stomach. 

His father banning his Durmstrang attendance had led to his parents falling out for the first time in Viktor’s memory. The thought of him going so far away had broken something in his mother, and she had pleaded with his father to change his mind. Grigor Krum had remained absolute in his resolve, and so Viktor hadn’t bothered with his own challenge. He knew his father to well to even want to try. 

The large doors in front of them opened, and unwittingly all of the gathered children moved forward. Surging towards the unknown with a mixture of excitement and fear. Viktor could only see suspended candles and a fraction of a table from this distance, no glimmer of the supposedly enchanted ceiling. 

Viktor pulled himself away from the wall he had been hovering towards and tried to remember his coach’s words of encouragement when he was trying new things on the pitch.  _ It’s not supposed to be easy, boy, if it were we’d all grow up to be international Quidditch sensations, and no one would ever earn it.  _

Viktor knew he had to try, he had to try to ease his mother’s heart, and his fathers guilt over a decision that he had assuredly made for the best of all of them. 

As he continued to talk himself into it, the names moved up. As they reached ‘D’ Viktor shuffled forward and narrowly missed tripping over the edge of a poorly laid flagstone. He sighed. He’d had a growth spurt over the summer, and he’d been left feeling like he was trying to make considered movements using someone else’s body. 

As he looked around, Viktor realised that no one had noticed his fumbling; they were all too focused on waiting for their name to be called and wondering what was going to happen next. Viktor glanced around. By nature of the alphabet and the ordered children, he would be in the middle of the group. He couldn’t decide whether that was fortunate or not. 

All too soon, he heard the stern witch shout again. “Krum, Viktor,” rang out in a shrill yet determined voice and Viktor moved to obey, watching his feet more than the room in front of him to make sure he didn’t trip again. When he finally looked up, she was standing a foot away from him, holding a crumpled hat aloft and looking at him expectantly. Viktor dutifully sat on the stool at her feet and felt the heavy fabric of the brim fall around his ears. 

_ Mr Krum _ … a voice began as if it were in his own mind. Viktor jumped, and the voice chucked, it took him more time than he would have liked to admit to realise that it was the hat speaking to him, and him alone.  _ Well, we didn’t expect to see you here, no, we didn’t. Well, now that you are with us, where to put you? There is ambition here, that much is clear, and the brains and determination to back it up. Bravery, certainly, you wouldn’t have made it this far without it, but there is something more, a loyalty… better be...  _ ** _Hufflepuff!_ **

Once Viktor realised the last part had been announced to the room at large he scrambled to get off the low stool and made his way to the group of students with yellow badge adorned robes. That we’re all clapping, clapping for him. 

Viktor hooked his leg over the bench seat and allowed himself to release the tremble in his limbs that had been building all day. He sat quietly as the rest of his year were sorted and clapped along with the rest as each new name joined the hall on one of the four benches. Then, finally, everyone was seated, the headmaster had spoken, and food appeared. 

Viktor settled a little once he had a full plate in front of him and even managed to contribute a few sentences to conversations. His accent received a few inquiring looks, but it appeared that his tablemates were too polite to ask any probing questions so soon. Discussions were focused on their surroundings, and the houses and the new classes, and how excited they all were. 

Viktor tried to eat as much as he could, he was starving, but the unfamiliar fare just made him feel even more like an outsider. He prodded listlessly at something he couldn’t identify and wondered if his mother would send him some of his prefered treats from home.

When talk turned to Quidditch, Viktor felt he was on safer ground. He braved making a few observations and when his points were quickly agreed with he felt surer and surer of himself until he started to relax, just a little. When he mentioned that he was playing for a county team a boy sitting opposite him, one that had been sorted early on in the group, turned towards him and beamed. 

“Me too!” he declared happily before reaching over the table to shake his hand. “Cedric, Cedric Diggory,” the boy said, introducing himself, his happy face lit up with a broad smile.

Viktor found himself returning it. “Viktor Krum.”


	4. Anyone for tennis?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hermione/Viktor modern AU   
for Anon (via Tumblr)

Hermione pulled at the wicker sun hat she had somehow manage to secure over her curls until it blocked out a little more of the invading light. The light and the crowds. Usually, she would have been content to frown at the sun and liberally apply SPF all over her nose, but she knew Lavender would tell her she would get wrinkles that way. Hermione had considered her options and decided that the annoyance of the sunhat was far less than that of Lavender’s pontificating. So she had dug out the summer relic from her almost abandoned suitcase and pushed it onto her head, cursing that she had somehow managed to inherit both her mother’s full waves and her father’s springy curls in the same head of hair. 

Hermione shuffled in her seat and tried to keep her face neutral, or at least unconcerned, as she saw a black moving box in her peripheral vision that indicated a camera was close by.

Hermione would never get used to the press. They were intrusive, rude and liable to make up whatever detail they wanted in order to get a good story. _ Good _ was obviously a relative term as Hermione had never considered any of the papers that had reported on her anything more than garbage. Unfortunately, her view wasn’t shared by the rest of society. She heard a few telltale clicking snaps in the distance and tried to stop her shoulders from stiffening. Vultures. 

Hermione wasn’t used to there being nothing she could do to improve her situation - her father had once referred to her as the activist’s activist - but against the tabloids, argument or explanation was redundant. Hermione had been coming to see Harry play since before they were even teenagers, and their refusal to discuss their relationship had led to the papers painting them as some ridiculously besotted, doe-eyed iteration of love’s young dream. It made Hermione nearly rabid. It made Harry laugh. 

Professional tennis, Hermione was given to understand, was a sport that garnered a lot of public interest, especially when the public had a ‘home-grown’ athlete that was in with a chance of threatening the top ranks in a few years.

The large man next to her adjusted his programme and twisted awkwardly in his no doubt exceptionally rigid blazer. Hermione couldn’t understand why everyone felt the need to dress up for Wimbledon. It was hot as blazes, and not even the promise of a bowl of strawberries was going to stop her from being entirely wilted by the end of the day. Her mother had sent her off with a can of what was supposed to be compressed water. ‘Refreshing’ the label had said. Hermione had emptied the entire thing over her face in the first hour to find it was no more hydrating than being coughed on in the desert. 

Hermione looked over to the people sitting on the other side of the court, all being perfectly British and attempting good humour as they were penned in together like exquisitely dressed cattle. She at least had the benefit of being inside the Player’s Box, a luxury she has been afforded since Harry had begged her to attend his first ‘proper’ match at a junior tournament when they were only twelve. It had been a considerable step up from sitting on one of the school benches, nestled amongst his spare kit, as she had done often in the early days. 

Hermione had had no idea of Harry’s sporting aspirations when she met him on their first day at school, and frankly, she was a little annoyed that he hadn’t mentioned it. Surely the world would work much more seamlessly if you could hand over a card when you met people, listing all your likes and dislikes and what sort of burden you intended to be as you got older. Tennis had a way of taking over lives, and though Hermione had been exposed to the sport for years, she had never really found a way to see it as enjoyable. Harry seemed to find her attitude amusing. He didn’t care if she didn’t like it; in fact, it strengthened his resolve to have her at matches as she was there only as his friend. Hermione wished he had taken an interest in something that generally resolved itself a little quicker, but then she supposed it could have been worse, it could have been football. 

Lavender sneaked a hand down into her purse and pulled out her makeup bag before clicking open a bedazzled mirror and reapplying her lipstick in smooth determined strokes. 

“Why are you bothering?” Hermione asked without looking in the blonde’s direction. “Ron’s already been on?”

“Yes, but the press is _ always _ watching,” Lavender replied with an affected pop of her lips. “I’ll be damned if I look anything less than perfect in case they get the idea he might trade me in.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, safe in the knowledge that her reaction was covered by the low peak of her crumpled hat. She really should have replaced it after Harry sat on it last July. “Honestly, Lavender, despite Ron’s myriad failings, he’s not an idiot.”

Lavender smiled a ruby lined smile. “Finally coming around to appreciating my finer qualities?”

Hermione snorted. “I was actually thinking more along the lines that no one else would put up with him.”

That was the other thing about friendship with Harry, not only did he come with tennis, he also came with Ronald Weasley. Ron and Hermione had not had an easy start. Their relationship had been frosty and then antagonistic but, somewhere along the way, they had mellowed into a sort of fragile friendship. They had existed on a tightrope of perpetual truce, anchored on either end by their mutual affection for Harry. Once Ron had started dating Lavender, a theatrical occasion that took over a Year 9 geography field trip, their relationship had become even smoother. Hermione may not have warmed to Lavender initially, but the blonde made for a bloody good buffer between Ron’s short temper and her own sarcastic nature.

Hermione had since found out that Harry had somehow expected that his two best friends would end up dating each other, much to the bemusement of herself and Ron, and to the horror of Lavender. Hermione blamed the year Harry had spent slavishly keeping a diary for his ridiculous romantic notions. Ron, perhaps more astutely, had said it came down to him living with his ‘Uncles’. Sirius and Remus had a notoriously acerbic romantic life, and anyone that had grown up like that could be forgiven for mistaking arguing for flirting. 

Lavender didn’t seem bothered by Hermione’s barb, but she ruffled herself up all the same. “And to think, I could have left you here to watch Harry all on your own.”

_ Chance would be a fine thing_, Hermione thought, but she had learnt to hold her tongue. Lavender wasn’t half as silly as she first appeared, and being on the receiving end of a few observant comments from the blonde over the years, had left Hermione with a keen understanding of just how it felt to be disparaged. She didn’t care for it, and it made her more hesitant to inflict her opinion on others. _ Unless they really asked for it. _

“You would never have done that,” she replied knowingly. “Ron won’t be done with his warm down for at least another hour.”

Lavender signed in acknowledgement before picking up a battered programme to use as a fan.

Hermione revelled in the wondrously comfortable silence. If anyone had seen them a year and a half ago, they would never have imagined the two could be in the same room without one of them storming out in a flurry of self-righteousness. The beautiful blonde had been so enamoured with Ron she had viewed everyone else in his life as a potential threat to her burgeoning claim. Hermione had been _ too different _ to be trusted, but over time - and repeated reassurances that Hermione would rather beat herself with a rusty pole than take Ron for her own - they had formed a good friendship. They were by no means best friends, and Hermione wouldn’t have thought of Lavender as someone particularly safe to confide in, but they managed many pleasant conversations while eyeing away the hours watching tennis. Lavender acted as if she was much more interested in the sport than Hermione was, but Hermione didn’t believe her. The blonde spent too much time with her gaze fixed determinedly on Ron’s shorts for her to even keep up with the score. 

There was some momentary distraction from their seemingly interminable wait when a pigeon landed on the top of the empty umpire’s chair, but then it flew away again, leaving soft murmuring and the rustling of paper in its wake. 

It was still the first round of the competition, and typically the crowd would not have been so dense, but Harry had done the unthinkable, not only had he managed to gain a seeded entry into Wimbledon he had somehow drawn Viktor Krum, the world number 3 at only 17, as his opponent. 

Hermione hadn’t understood her friend’s jubilation at the news, as surely it meant inevitable defeat, but for Harry, he thought it would take the pressure off. He wasn’t expecting to win the first round anyway, and now he would get a chance to play against someone it might have taken him years to meet further down the line at another tournament. The match was sure to draw impressive viewing figures, which could potentially mean sponsorship opportunities and who knew what else, as long as Harry could make a good showing and hold his nerve.

All of a sudden, there was a familiar commotion, and it felt as if the entire court leaned forward as the players came out of the tunnels in their brilliant white outfits. Harry hadn’t had time to collect the corporate sponsors most would have had by the time they had their Wimbledon debut, but their school had kindly donated him a kit and Harry was proud to have the outlined castle logo on his brand new polo.

As they began the traditional ‘friendly’ rally, Lavender started talking about some party she was hosting at the weekend that Hermione had already refused to go to and so she was easily distracted by a slight jostling next to her. There was a woman on the other of the large man on her right, and she seemed to be complaining about the sun being in her eyes. At least that was what Hermione imagined they were talking about from their gestures; their voices were too soft for her to catch what they were saying. 

After a muffled conversation, the two eventually switched seats, and Hermione exchanged a polite nod with the elegantly dressed lady now next to her. 

“You are his girlfriend?” the lady asked in smoothly accented English, indicating Harry as he adjusted the sweatband on his wrist. 

“No,” Hermione replied on autopilot, having been asked the question a million times before. “He’s a school friend.”

“He,” the lady said, pointing to Krum, “is my son.”

Hermione followed her finger to look at the player she had heard both Harry and Ron witter on about as if he were the second coming of Jesus. “I hear he is very good,” she replied kindly, and the lady laughed.

“You hear correctly,” she said with a grin.

* * *

The match was fierce, and despite Hermione’s general disinterest curbing her knowledge, it was apparent to even her that Viktor was a phenomenal player. He had a serve like she had never seen and she was left in no doubt that by the time he reached twenty he would be at the top of his field. She was incredibly impressed that Harry was putting up any kind of fight. He wasn’t doing enough to threaten Viktor’s game, but he was still winning points and showing enough grit and personality to get the home crowd well and truly behind him. 

After a short break, the second set began and as Harry scrambled to return Viktor’s incredible serve, he hit the speeding ball with the edge of his racket, and it rebounded into the crowd. Luckily, the furry, yellow missile lost most of its potentially devastating speed before it got to the Player’s Box and was easily caught by the man Hermione had been introduced to as Grigor, Viktor’s father. 

Grigor good-naturedly threw the ball back towards the court, leading to a delighted murmuring of the crowds. Hermione looked down, eager to see if Viktor had inherited his aim, but as she did, she looked right into the seemingly waiting gaze of Viktor Krum. Almost without realising it, Hermione brushed her hand back to push the crumpled hat off her head to properly look and then, just as swiftly as it had arrived, the moment had gone. 

Viktor won convincingly in what might have been the most exhilarating match Hermione had ever seen. She watched as a red-faced, beaming Harry approached the net and gave his opponent’s hand a shake and then clapped at the crowd and towards the tv monitors much to the delight of those fans that had not sped away in the hope of catching another game. 

As the commotion built around them, Lavender stood and straightened out her dress. Hermione was sure that she hadn’t got approval for it from McGonagall. Their Head of House was traditional, to say the least. After four years of education, Hermione could almost hear their Professor’s thoughts on a strapless gown without using much imagination. 

“You’re coming back?” she asked slash demanded as she pulled her bag onto her shoulder and re-ruffled her hair. 

“I didn’t think we were allowed,” Hermione protested. 

Lavender shrugged. “Who is going to stop us? Come on.”

Hermione dutifully got to her feet and followed in Lavender’s wake. 

* * *

Lavender, true to form, made light work of getting past the security officers guarding the front of the player’s area and was soon sashaying off down a corridor in search of Ron. Hermione was left alone to navigate the rabbit warren she had found herself in, though it didn’t take her long to locate Harry. 

“Harry,” she greeted, noticing how much more he looked like himself now he was showered and in his regular clothes. “Well done.”

In her exuberance, she missed that he was not alone. Viktor Krum loomed from his position at the side of the corridor, standing awkwardly as if he was unsure of his welcome. _ But that couldn’t be right. Could it? _ Hermione had met enough players over the years to believe that none of them lacked for self-assurance. She’d been at a Christmas party a few months before and had nearly been mauled by a young up and comer called Cormac McLaggen. He had backed off when Lavender had pressed a sharp nail into his upper thigh and told him she would eat him alive, and not in a way that he would enjoy. 

After a couple of beats of silence, Harry seemed to remember some of his sporadic manners and gestured between them. “Right, Mione, this is Viktor Krum. Viktor this is Mione, I mean, Hermione Granger.” Harry watched them greet each other quietly before he burst forth as if he couldn’t hold his words in any more. “He’s asked me to play with him, during the competition, as his practise partner. Me! Can you believe it?”

“Really?” Hermione asked, hoping she had managed to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. Only Harry could have been happy to do all the work behind the scenes with no hope of getting back onto the court.

“He was good,” Viktor replied succinctly. Hermione had the impression that somehow, to him, apparently a man a few words, _ good _ was up there with the highest of praise. Hermione tried not to think about how crestfallen she would be if the word appeared on one of her essays and instead focused on the easy joy in Harry’s eyes. 

“That’s lovely of you… Mr Krum,” she replied, not really knowing how to address him. Sure she was around professionals every day, but they were her peers. It was a bit odd to call him that, he wasn’t exactly a teacher or one of her parents’ friends and yet he seemed so much more than them. To just blurt out and call him Viktor seemed presumptuous. 

“Pleasure,” he replied softly, and the warmth in his tone made Hermione blush. She was immensely grateful that Ron and Lavender were elsewhere and Harry was distracted so she could guarantee she wouldn’t be mocked to death later. 

She was saved from having to respond by more happy voices filling the corridor, and Viktor’s parents appeared. Hermione wasn’t surprised they had gotten past security. Sofiya, much like Lavender, seemed to be the type of woman who would have found the idea of someone trying to say no to them ‘darling’. 

Viktor’s mother gave him a warm smile before she reached forward and kissed both his cheeks. 

Hermione and Harry began fumbling with Harry’s kit, leaving the Krum’s a bit of privacy to speak without them hovering. She noticed Viktor was not carrying a bag. She imagined when you made the top ten you didn’t need to load up a school friend like a pit pony in order to get home. 

Hermione pulled the second racket bag onto her shoulder just as Grigor walked over to address them. “We are going to get some dinner, would you care to join us?”

“We wouldn’t want to intrude,” Hermione replied as Harry shot her a look that told her that he was dead set on intruding and not to screw this up for him, but Sofiya just chucked. 

“I must insist, come on,” she said and looped her arm with Hermione, all but dragging her down the corridor. As they turned the first bend, Hermione felt the weight on her other arm lift. When she turned, she watched as Viktor pulled Harry’s bags onto his shoulder as if they weighed nothing and couldn’t find the required words to protest. 

* * *

The Krum’s had chosen a nice restaurant, fancy without being oppressively decadent and Hermione was grateful to find that she recognised most of what was on the menu. After a sharing some small talk about their experiences of the circuit and their schooling, The Krum’s peppered Harry with questions about his aspirations and Hermione listened with half an ear as she shifted in her seat.

They had been given a booth when they entered, but Hermione had been too busy staring up at a vast semi-circular chandelier to concentrate on the goings-on around her. By the time she came back down to earth, everyone else was already lowering into their chairs, and there was only one seat left… next to Viktor. 

They had exchanged a few words, enough for him to politely if firmly, insist that she use his first name, but nothing that could have been considered a proper conversation. Hermione couldn’t make out why he was so uncomfortable. She kept getting the impression he was looking at her, but with her hair obscuring her vision, she couldn’t be sure. Any time she risked a surreptitious glance, he was looking away, apparently wholly engaged in the conversation.

It would have been fine if she hadn’t been so uncomfortable herself. Viktor’s presence seemed to push out from his body and invade her personal space. He was tall, certainly, probably as tall as Ron, but he was slim too, so it wasn’t like she was sitting next to a great lumbering bulk like Crabbe or Goyle, and yet she felt like she could barely lift a spoon without jostling him. It felt like he was crowding her. Hermione realised to her surprise - and fear - that she quite enjoyed the sensation. 

“I’m sorry about ball nearly hitting you,” Viktor said after they had made their way through most of the main course. 

Hermione chewed her food and wished she hadn’t taken such a large mouthful a second before. 

“It’s fine. I assumed it wasn’t an assassination attempt; after all, it came off Harry’s racket.” She managed a short laugh at the end of her sentence, but she imagined it was painfully obvious to everyone within a ten-mile radius how dry her throat sounded. She had been drinking water incessantly since they sat down and yet she could barely generate enough saliva to coat her tongue.

They went back to their silence, and Hermione debated trying to eat the peas left on her plate with something approaching grace before pushing them away.

“So... Do you play?” Viktor asked. He muttered so softly she barely heard him. Hermione was only convinced he had spoken at all by the quizzical raise of his heavyset brow. 

Hermione shook her head and put down her cutlery, no longer trusting herself to eat without jangling the metal against what was no doubt an expensive plate. “I am reliably informed I can barely hold a racket.”

“But you come to so many games,” Viktor said, and Hermione turned to look at him with surprise. The answer to her curiosity was a blush in the very centre of his cheeks. “I have… Erm… Seen your picture before.”

Hermione tried to clear her throat. “Well… I… Harry is my friend. He doesn’t have family close by… so I come down when I can.”

Their exchange was halted by the arrival of a dessert menu, and Hermione wasn’t sure whether to kiss or kill Harry when he ordered a sodding souffle. 

The waiter came over and topped up the adult’s wine, and Viktor joined the conversation around the table for a moment. In direct contrast to how she usually felt, Hermione was gripped by his description of discovering he had a talent at an early age and the work it had taken to nurture it. It had never sounded quite so compelling coming from Harry. When Viktor was speaking about something he was passionate about, he lost that awkwardness Hermione had picked up on over the last couple of hours. His voice got louder, and his posture more relaxed. She found herself noticing the timber in his voice, the cut of his cheekbones and the nick in his eyebrow; cataloguing his features in a way she had never felt compelled to with anyone before. 

Harry’s pudding arrived to much fanfare, and Grigor asked him about his coaching programme while Hermione swallowed ice cream she could barely taste. 

“Will you be here for the rest of tournament?” Viktor asked eventually. “I have tickets for tomorrow.”

Hermione was unsure whether there was invite lingering under his words or not, and in any case, it didn’t matter. “I’m afraid I’ll be heading back to school.”

Viktor merely nodded, and Hermione went back to finishing her pudding. The waiter came around again and after a couple of protests, the Krum’s paid. Both grateful and yet somehow resenting the end of their evening, Hermione pulled out her phone to check the train timetable as Harry walked towards the door.

“I…” Viktor began, approaching her and then seeming to take a step back. He gestured towards her phone and then rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Could I… get your phone number?”

Hermione stared at him in surprise and did her level best to suppress the squeak that threatened. “Erm… yes… I mean… if you’re sure you want it?” She stopped herself from asking him what he wanted it for, but only because she knew if Lavender ever found out about it, she would find a way of murdering her with a stiletto. 

Viktor grinned, and the expression was more self-assured, and self-assuring, than anything she had seen him exhibit so far. If he had been attractive to her before, now he was bloody devasting. “I am very sure,” he said confidently. “That is why I ask.”

He handed Hermione a ridiculously expensive looking phone, and she dutifully typed her number in and then, at his instruction, she called her own number and let it ring.

“Now when I call, you will know it is me, and you can ignore if you want,” he offered with a shy smile. His fingers brushed hers as she gave him the phone back, and that was when Hermione knew she was well and truly fucked. 

* * *

Viktor called two days later. Hermione didn’t ignore it, though she did think about it. The butterflies in her stomach made her fingers sweat, and she was sure he would be able to sense it through the phone. But she answered, and they spoke for thirty minutes. 

He called again the day after and the day after that. They soon found that life at a boarding school wasn’t particularly conducive to having private phone conversations. After some discussion, they decided to write each other letters. 

Harry laughed himself sick when he found one of them. “After all these years putting up with tennis under sufferance you fall in love with one of the biggest stars in the world? I can’t wait to tell Sirius.”

Ron made her explain how it had happened three times. Hermione got the impression he was jealous. Of her. 

When Lavender found out, she smiled her mean little smile and the next day she produced a lipstick in pale pink shade and shoved it in Hermione’s purse. “Think of it as a magic wand,” she said, “and you might want to get a decent hairbrush too.”


	5. Better Be... Hufflepuff - Part Two

Hermione sat at the rickety table on the far side of the Weasley’s tent. It was a close thing, but she eventually talked herself out of reaching for the book that was lying - oh so tantalisingly - at the bottom of her bag. She had promised herself that she would be  _ positive _ , she would be  _ grateful _ and most of all, she would try her very best to be  _ interested  _ even if she didn’t feel that she knew enough even to feign it. 

Why anyone had thought that the Quidditch World Cup would hold any appeal for her was anyone’s guess, but then again, she considered the alternative,  _ how would it have felt if they had all gone without her? _ She knew that feeling well enough to know how much it would have hurt. And, in any case, there was plenty that appealed, if she just thought to look for it. Percy had given her some insight into the immense planning that had gone into putting on an event of this scale. He had even promised to show her source materials for the protective ward designs used around the camp. The twins had teased her for nerdiness but standing next to Percy, sheltered by the fierce glare he sent back to his brothers, Hermione hadn’t minded their words. Percy’s resilience might have done nothing to deter Fred and George, but it did a great deal to inspire her. 

Hermione looked up as the huddle of her friends on the other side of the tent began to raise their voices. The debate on who would win that evening had been raging for days, and so far showed no signs of tailing off. Hermione was quite sure that she had never seen the twins be so passionate about anything, which was as depressing as it was fascinating. 

You would have thought they would have run out of arguments to have over one match by now. It was, after all, I finite contest with only two possible outcomes, but then again, they had a new face to argue with, as of this morning. 

When they had arrived at the Portkey location, after trudging up a dew crested hill before sunrise, they had been met by Cedric Diggory - Hogwart’s resident Hufflepuff wonder boy. 

For some reason after such a short meeting, Charlie, who Hermione herself had only met that day, had quickly decided that Cedric was ‘wicked’. As such, as soon as Amos had made noises about catching up with his ministry colleagues, the older Weasley children had _ insisted _ that Cedric tag along with them. 

Hermione had been momentarily bent out of shape, but not truly inconvenienced. She couldn’t pretend she admired Cedric like she did some of the other Prefects, but she didn’t know him well enough to truly dislike him. It was more that his attitude was obviously at odds with her own, and she was already surrounded with enough of that to not desire to add to it any further. 

Cedric had a presence; he was just one of those people. He smiled, he was confident and sure of who he was — an amazing feat at only seventeen. But to Hermione, he was a bit... _ flashy _ . She didn’t like the way he sashayed around the school with the sleeves of his robes pushed up to his elbows and his hair quaffed in some gravity-defyingly ridiculous way that all the other boys tried - almost universally unsuccessfully - to replicate. 

“Come on.”

Hermione looked up at Ginny regarding her excitedly.  _ Her _ thoughts on Cedric joining them were much more positive. 

“Come where?”

“We are going on a tour of the campsite! Cedric knows where all the best things are, he’s been to a couple of these matches before.”

“Of course he has,” Hermione replied, reluctantly getting to her feet but knowing better than to resist outright. In any case, she was at least a little curious. It was by far the biggest campsite she had ever seen, and there were bound to be more magical elements that she had not considered. 

With one last regretful look, she took the book from out of her bag and placed it on the top of the table, ready to claim later. 

* * *

“I can’t believe how good these seats are. You can see EVERYTHING from up here. This is amazing!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and stared directly ahead. Now they were in the stadium they had the distraction of thousands of other people which meant she didn’t have to participate in the ongoing conversations. All in all, she was enjoying herself more than she had expected, but Cedric had been driving her bananas for hours, and somehow she had ended up sitting next to him in the minister’s box. 

She blamed Ginny; her friend had scampered off to try and get closer to Harry and Hermione hadn’t noticed, by the time she had trudged to the top of the steps there had only been one seat left, between Cedric and Fred.  _ There was probably a circle of hell that closely resembled her current position _ . She had tried to encourage Cedric to sit directly next to Fred, but apparently their opposing views on the match had now reached a fever pitch maxing close proximity extremely unwise. In fact, they were now only communicating by exchanging increasingly vicious barbs over the top of her head. 

Hermione reached inside her pocket to pull out a sugar-free sweet and watched as the first of the mascots came out. Only moments later, she had to try very hard to keep back from the growing mania when galleons began pouring down from the sky. Unfortunately, moving to avoid a scuffling Fred and George meant getting closer to Cedric, and consequently, not being able to drown out his constant bleating about Viktor Krum. His best friend, fellow badger and one of Hogwarts leading lights.

“... the best Seeker in the world, probably the best player in the world, and he isn’t even full time yet…”

“Imagine being that good and still being so bloody cool…”

“I hope he’s not too nervous… I told him he would be great. His parents are here. You would love them, they are so ...” 

With the vain hope of keeping his mouth occupied for a few precious seconds, Hermione offered Cedric a sweet and nearly sagged in disappointment when he turned it down.

“What a view? Can you believe it, Granger? I can’t believe Viktor got me this seat, this is amazing!”

“So you keep saying,” Hermione muttered and went back to looking at the pitch and the sea of spectators readying themselves for the match. 

Viktor Krum was a person she had often heard discussed since she had joined Hogwarts. The castle was home to a fair few ‘fabled’ students but unlike so many of them - Harry to name one - Viktor never divided opinion. If you spoke to the boys in her year, his very existence seemed as vital to the wizarding world as Transfiguration, but Hermione had never cared for sport or celebrity. The combination of both in one boy was not enough for her to consider him anything more than the sum of his parts. From what little she knew of him, he didn’t seem to be someone who courted fame, and his marks were consistently high.

To Hermione, it was weird for his fellow students to hero-worship someone they vaguely knew, especially the older ones. But then, she didn’t count Cedric in that. Irritating as the overzealous Hufflepuff might have been, he genuinely was friends with Viktor. They were inseparable as far as Hermione knew. 

As for herself, Hermione couldn’t say she knew Viktor well at all. She probably knew less than anyone that might have been at the game or owned one of his posters. She knew him as well she knew any of the upper years. She knew Cedric better, then again,  _ everyone knew Cedric Diggory. _

She also knew that she was bloody freezing. Excellent as the view may have been, not that she had much to compare it to, all those steps meant being up in the gods and the wind was wiping around them viciously. Fred, taking a break from stuffing his pockets, noticed her shivering and made to remove his scarf for her but Cedric was suddenly there, interjecting himself and shaking his head.

“No way,” he said, crossing his arms. 

“What?” Fred and Hermione asked at the same time, together in their confusion. 

“Viktor is playing for  _ Bulgaria _ , Granger,” Cedric said as if his rationale was obvious. 

“Does it matter?” Hermione replied with a shrug, looking at the heavy scarf still in Fred’s outstretched hand with barely concealed longing. “I’m sure he is mature enough not to be mortally offended by a random spectator supporting a different team.”

“You are hardly a random spectator, you go to his school, and you’re sitting next to me.”

Hermione felt the beginnings of a tension headache. “Fred and George have green scarves.”

Cedric huffed, and Fred turned away from them, clearly keen to leave them to their disagreement so he could confer with his brother. “Those guys actually support Ireland, so I’ll allow it. You don’t follow Quidditch at all…”

“You’ll _allow_ it?” Hermione asked, incredulously. _Just who the bloody hell did he think he was?_

“Here,” Cedric said, ignoring her indignation. He took off his maroon scarf and hung it loosely around her neck. “That’s better.”

Hermione looked at Cedric, baffled by his behaviour but before she could challenge him, floodlights further illuminated the pitch. It was time for the players to come out. 

* * *

Viktor climbed the surprisingly rickety stairs with what felt like the weight of the actual world on his slim shoulders. He knew he should not have expected anything different; every sports pundit imaginable had predicted an Ireland win and yet… he had hoped for better. 

Professor Sprout had made the first attempt at curtailing his expectations back when he had first been selected for the team, and he trusted her judgement almost as much of that of his father - but still, he had allowed himself to hope. 

Hope, he had learnt over the years, could be a powerful motivator, but when hope died, there was nothing quite like the crushing sensation it left in its wake. 

Viktor followed the footsteps of the man in front of him but allowed his head to drop. He was pretty sure his nose was broken, and he was certain his spirit was. 

Hope? Hope sucked. 

As he moved into the minister’s box, Viktor quickly spotted Cedric, and he felt his spirits lift, it was hugely comforting to see a familiar face. His parents were in the box with family and friends of the Bulgaria players, but Viktor had thought Cedric and his father would have been more comfortable sitting with some people they knew. 

He took a glance at the line in front of him - players snaking in every direction waiting their turn to shake hands with bigwigs from the British ministry and representatives from various institutions - he stepped to the side to clasp his friend around the shoulders. 

“You did it. You played in a World Cup Final!”

Despite himself, Viktor smiled. Cedric just had that effect on him; he always had, right from the day they met when they had barely been big enough to sit on bench seats and reach the tabletop, and couldn’t so much as successfully light the end of their wands. Cedric was kind, positive and encouraging. He’d been the first friend Viktor had made following his unwanted journey to British shores and the most faithful friend as it turned out. 

“We didn’t win,” Viktor lamented with a sigh. No matter how much he cared for Cedric and his opinion, he understood that they were very different people. His drives and motivations were distinctive, and he felt pressure and disappointment much more keenly than the exuberant boy in front of him. 

“You caught the Snitch,” Cedric reminded him with a soft push to his shoulder. “It’s not all bad.”

Viktor rubbed his hair, wishing he could disappear for a shower and a moment to gather his thoughts rather than standing underneath all of these lights, all of this scrutiny. “I should have allowed it to carry on.”

“Bollocks,” Cedric began, but whatever else he was going to say was cut off when the short witch that had been standing with her back to them turned and offered him a hesitant smile.

“If you ask me you were right to do what you did. You ended it on your terms. It was noble.”

“Granger, only you would choose  _ now _ to offer an opinion,” Cedric said and then mimed tearing at his hair in frustration. “He’s an international Quidditch star, Hermione, not a knight of the round table. Honestly,” he said as he twisted away from Hermione to look back at Viktor. “I’ve had to sit with her for the  _ entire  _ game.” Cedric’s tone was one of fond exasperation, and he gestured at Hermione with a pointed look that Viktor was glad she couldn’t see. 

Cedric’s knowing smirk made Viktor almost glad of the residual blood on his face. He hoped the spattering of claret would be a good cover for the blush he could feel forming on his cheeks, in spite of the brisk wind. 

He had made the mistake of telling Cedric he thought she was  _ quite pretty  _ last year and his friend hadn’t shut up about it since. He was now considering that such an assessment had been a  _ gross _ underestimation, but he wasn’t about to let his friend know that. 

In the final term, the previous year, Cedric had come back to their dorm moaning about ‘Granger’ after she had made several requests for information that Cedric hadn’t known the answer to. Cedric thought she was an interfering know it all, though Viktor suspected it had more to do with Hermione having approached him while he was chatting up Cho Chang, and consequently making him look a bit silly in front of a girl he fancied. 

It had been a knee jerk reaction for Viktor at the time, to try and defend her and as soon as he had Cedric had gone on and on about it until Viktor had admitted that he liked her hair, her big brown eyes and the spattering of freckles across her nose. 

Viktor had since tried to tell him, several times, that it wasn’t a big deal, but Cedric was having none of it. He had pointed out that Viktor had _ never  _ mentioned any girl, in that sort of way, so it obviously meant something. Viktor had been hard-pressed to persuade him otherwise, mainly because he was right.

He couldn’t pinpoint when it was that he had first noticed Hermione Granger, because of her association with Potter and her intellectual aptitude she was one of those people that you just knew. But there had been a time in that last year when he realised he seemed to see her everywhere, in the library, in the great hall, out on the grounds and always with her nose in a book. 

He’d never actually been in a situation where he could talk to her before, and here he had just lost a game,  _ a major one _ , and in their first-ever interaction, she was complimenting him.

“Noble?” he asked, wishing he had something more intelligent to offer than just parroting her own word back at her, but he needed time to recover his wits. 

“Better to have dignity in defeat than an undignified win,” she offered as if it was a definite statement, but Cedric huffed. 

“If you say so, Granger.”

The rest of what was said was lost in the hullabaloo of the box. The Weasley twins turned around and offered their congratulatory commiserations, and Viktor accepted their chatter with as much patience as possible. Generally, he thought his English had come along leaps and bounds since he started at Hogwarts, but the twins always managed to make him feel like it was his first day all over again. 

Before he knew it, his name was called, and just before he walked away, Cedric leant forward and pressed a hand against his shoulder. “You’ll note she’s wearing a Bulgaria scarf, I thought you might enjoy that,” he said with a broad grin. “I gave her mine when she was going to take one from one of the Weasleys.”

“She’s an Ireland fan?”

Cedric sighed. “I don’t want to pour cold water on your  _ little crush _ , mate, but she doesn’t have a fucking clue about Quidditch.”

A picture was taken at that moment, and it was one that would later be printed on sports pages around the world. In it, Viktor Krum gave a short barking - and rather unprecedented - laugh before walking forward to meet officials politely. It was widely regarded as a demonstration of good sporting behaviour, a player that was, as Hermione would have put it, ‘dignified in defeat’. 

Little did they know, it had nothing at all to do with the game. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this is the continuation of the lovely Hogwart’s Viktor prompt I received. As that had asked for Vikmione, I thought it would be a good idea for Hermione to pop up in this AU and I wanted to do something that was a reworking of the first meeting in Air. There will be a couple more parts to this one, but if you have any more Hermione x Viktor prompts, please let me know, on here or on Tumblr (Calebski).
> 
> Happy New Year All x


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